Case Study: Argument Against Falling from the Sky
by One-two-many-lots
Summary: The inhabitants of a small, south-western town have come across something of an anomaly in their landscape and want to know how it got there. Ideas are offered. One-shot, with very little point.


**Case Study: **_An Argument Against "Dropping Out of the Sky"_

Circles are one of Nature's strong points, one of the few geometric shapes that Nature can produce absolutely flawlessly with about as much effort as one would expend upon breathing. Nature has little more difficulty when considering lines, which meander lazily between Point A and Point B, and squares, which could charitably be called Closed Polygons on a good day. Oddly, hexagons claim a strange rate of success, as do dodecahedrons. Suffice to say, Nature was never the most studious geometry student, but it sure knew a circle when it saw one.

Let's concentrate on one of these circles now.

From high above, it looks like a group of awkward vultures standing shoulder to shoulder, waiting for their quarry in the center of their dismal circle to turn from dead to deader. The dry landscape, the shifting thermals in the arid wind, and the cracked earth place us some where in the heart of one of Nature's numerous deserts, but deserts are like Nature's circles: they pop up everywhere, even where you least expect them, and they all look the same. Upon closer examination of this particular desert-dwelling circle, we see the members are humans, some more vulture-like than others, puzzling over a body that appears to have collapsed heavily onto the dusty ground. It's clothed in a loose white garment so opposite in appearance from the rustic, weather-beaten wardrobe of the crowd it is immediately clear that the wearer is from foreign parts. The men and women surrounding the body look on with a kind of confused awe, and an unspoken desire for the bizarre illusion to have some gruesome, and therefore exciting, story to tell.

Unfortunately, the object of the group's collective concern has remained about as lively as a sardine in an unopened tin.

"Looks like he dropped out of the sky," one sagely observes through a partially opened mouth. Against all probability, or ecological justification, a long blade of dry wheat bobs buoyantly from the corner of his closed lips, blowing in the sparse wind. Its owner is an old man, face tanned by years spent under an unkind sun, wrinkled by smiles, thoughts, and worries. He dwells upon the strangely clothed body, his yellowed eyes squinting in the bright light, as he leans upon a walking stick nearly as worn as he is.

This remark is greeted with a certain amount of acceptance, one or two members of the circle sheepishly glancing up to see if any more gravity-fearing people are due. Things falling out of the sky were a normal occurrence, though no one had witnessed the act, and was an established explanation for any and all random, unexplained items that happened to be lying around.

"Could be dead," says another younger person as he stoops down and reaches a darkened hand out to touch the body.

"Or carrying an infectious disease," suggests yet another. The hand recoils immediately, though not completely.

"Gotta be a pretty subtle infectious disease," notes one in an overly ponderous voice of someone who knows what they're going to say next will be extraordinarily wise. Chances are if you suspect what you've got to say is wise, the better you can count on it being a rather obtuse statement indeed. "Lemmings're infectious, but they've spots on 'em." This was not one of the sharper community members, as it turned out.

"Them's _lemurs_," says a chum of his with a knowing nod.

A man that had not previously spoken coughs, clearing his parched throat of dust. "Lepers, I believe," he wheezes. His of a thin, wiry build and evidence enough that allergies have a very real bone to pick with man. His eyes are swollen and streaked with blood vessels threatening to burst, his face gaunt, his features pinched, his hair disheveled and sun-bleached red, and his posture slumped, his neck bent like cornering aid.

For a while, nothing can be heard but the whispers of wind across the barren landscape. The sun shines, for lack of a more interesting pastime—its current one has worked so well for so long—and the loose grit around their feet swirls and settles in a dance that probably began eons ago.

Then the man, who seems to be living proof that Nature has a sure vendetta against such ridiculous things as an immune system, addresses the circle again. "He could have just as easily been sucked through the ground as fell from the sky." This statement warrants a continued explanation, or the general sentiment of the weary group demands one, but none is offered.

"And why is that?" prompts the Sage, shuffling his poorly clad feet in the dirt. Little clouds of earth are propelled into the air and quickly whisked away by an enterprising gust.

It is a moment before the raspy voice hazards a reply. "I might be wrong, but doesn't it make more sense that, if people are randomly appearing, they come from where they already are, as in Earth, rather than from where they're not usually, as in the sky?"

A man at the Sage's left strokes a mangy beard, eyeing his comrades malevolently. His is, if all the members of the circle were lined up according to strength, stamina, wit, or general lack-of-shabbiness, the only one that would be the polar opposite of the allergy-suffering man at every turn. He possesses a sort of shattered, rugged handsomeness first popularized and only successfully obtained by Humphrey Bogart, and a learned air associated with scientists that think too much about public image and not enough about what it is they're actually supposed to be studying.

It's obvious he thinks silence is an unnecessary noun and that, when it must exist, merely provides a good, interruption-free period in which the world may be graced with his voice. "it's not impossible that a man may fall from the sky," he says, enunciating every "t" sound until his speech becomes a clipped collection of syllables rather than a more meaningful argument. "We have been able to, for many a year, triumphantly launch rocket ships into orbit at the expenditure of much effort, amazing fellow inhabitants with touch-downs on near satellites, and dumbfounding even the most loquacious of critics into speechlessness with pictures of alien planets..." Something happens then that has probably never happened before: our scientist is interrupted. He sputters angrily in a feeble attempt to wedge his way back into dominance over the conversation.

"I can't say you haven't blasted a bunch of ships into oblivion, but, of those that you've shot off, how many have had people aboard?" A whooping sneeze cuts what suspiciously sounds like the beginning of a rant off abruptly. Momentum lost is hard to regain.

The Scientist sneers at the man he would never even consider counting among his colleagues. "A great deal of them, thank you very much." He glares to where the man that recently interrupted him is now trying to pound air into lungs with a fist against his chest. "There have been many notable walks in space: man is able to repair the rockets and lift terribly heavy items with little physical strain. While such activity is dangerous, swimming through the infinity of space, the men are attached to a safety harness. Such a line could easily have been accidentally cut, and the gravity from Earth could have drawn him back." He seems very satisfied with his explanation, as does the Sage, who offers him a doting grin. Neither of them expects the slightly delayed reply.

The Scientist's not-colleague, who could very easily be called Malady to spare the time it would take to list each and every one of those ailments that affect him, hacks embarrassedly into his shirt hem. "Even so... Even if he," he waves an errant hand in the direction of the body, "had been drawn back to Earth, how would he have gotten here—in _this_ state?"

"Easy," comes the casual retort to the, according to the tone of the punctuated voice, unnecessary question. "He would have entered the atmosphere..."

"...At an excruciating speed..."

The Scientist pretends he hasn't heard the snide comment and proceeds as if no one else had heard it either. To be truthful, the rest of the circle is wondering where it had come from. "...at an angle similar to the trajectory angle used by space craft when re-entering the earth's..."

"...and if he hadn't gotten the angle perfectly right he would have been burnt to a crisp faster than Jim here can evaporate crisps with his welding iron..."

"...AND fallen to where he is now," the Scientist snarls, scowling to where the innocent Malady stands itching his sullied, and probably flea-ridden, mat of hair. The audience, who has watched the conversation between men as one might watch a tennis match from front-row seats, wearily looks from one man to the other.

Now the silence is inevitable, the wind endeavoring to strip the awkwardness and tension from the group, but failing to do so.

"Let's say he came from space," Malady pants, breaking the agitated silence with an unpleasant snort that makes everyone cringe, "and let's say he was an astronaut. His suit burns off as he re-enters the atmosphere at the incredibly precise angle, I suppose?"

The Scientist rolls his eyes, arms crossed. "I suppose it did, didn't it?"

"Fairly amazing that only it was burnt off, as meteors several times this man's mass and durability are reduced to nothing at all if they hit the atmosphere at a slightly different angle." The Scientist broods sullenly, not speaking. The rest of the group can be seen collectively narrowing their eyes as they try to wrap their minds around the recent impossibility presented to them.

"So, our astronaut escapes the atmosphere unscathed, except for his melted suit," Malady continues laboriously, as if waiting for something to clear out of his parched throat, "but now he has to contend with, as mentioned before, gravity."

"Gravity is nine point eight meters per second squared," the Scientist provides, sniffing the dust with the air of someone trying to astonish his comrades with trivial facts.

Malady smiles brightly, revealing teeth whose description is best left to the imagination. "Which means a man who is drawn back to Earth from a shuttle orbiting at, approximately, three hundred kilometers above the earth would impact with the ground with force enough to pulverize a two-meter thick slab of iron. He'd hardly be in the condition he is now..."

"The sand could have absorbed the energy," the Scientist replies, in spite of himself, after a hard nudge in the ribs by the Sage. Malady raises his eyebrows. "Well," snaps the Scientist, "it's never been tested, so it very well might be the case."

The circle turns as one to see Malady's reaction.

He shrugs. "The lack of tests might be due to a lack of volunteers," he mutters precariously, voice threatening to succumb to another round of unpleasant hacks and coughs. "Regardless, it's common knowledge that if you fall from more than a few meters onto...dirt...you risk breaking something." The circle nods. "If you fall from several hundred meters, the impact must be slightly more… evident."

"You can't prove that," spits the Scientist in a last-ditch attempt to discredit Malady.

"Ignoring that, our subject is certainly not as flat as he should be." Malady pauses a moment to lick his chapped lips, watching the circle inwardly debate. In every circle known to man, across time and space, those members who are the most practical in their approach to life are often more despised than those who make life an infinitely more complicated thing to deal with. No amount of psychoanalysis can even attempt to explain this rudimentary phenomenon.

Very much aware of this, Malady plunges onward and the Scientist returns to moping.

"After examining this, I ask you to consider, briefly, the composition of the earth. We have an outer crust on which our continents collide, our oceans slosh, and life lives. Beneath this is a layer of solid rock, several miles thick, that eventually thins into a molten cousin. Traveling nearer to the center, as every sphere must have one, we encounter mantel after mantel of the life-stuff of rock. The center yields to the hottest zone yet.

"Excuse me, if you may, for a momentary change in my train of thought; I hope this one will arrive at the same destination." The man pauses, sniffing in the manner of someone who has a sneeze stuck in his nose. The gap is void of laughter. It hadn't been a very witty remark, but something in the human genes compels us to laugh even at the most asinine of comments. Apparently, extenuating circumstances, like intense curiosity and/or disgust, release us from this contractual obligation.

The Scientist, after being quiet for a few minutes, attempts the polite cough the educated have developed for those instances when they wish to interrupt the speaker. Sadly, momentum gained is something hard to get rid of, and Malady pays him no heed. That, or the cough was not heard beyond the few people now surrounding the Scientist. The rest have slowly moved nearer to Malady, though not so close as to be in range of the occasional toxic, yet accidental, spit that happens to fly from the lecturer's lips when he becomes excited…

"Though not common where we currently are, there exists a sort of area in bogs known as 'quicksand,' and it is made of very fine mud and not quick in the least. It slowly inhales wayward victims and it is a rather muddy business. The victim is suffocated after he is completely submerged, the density and viscosity dooming him to be well preserved in a layer of muck for all time.

"Gravity must still affect these unfortunate ex-beings, thus pulling them into the very depths of the earth. Considering there are only a few thousand feet to fall from the sky, and several miles to go through the earth, the total gravity affecting the subject who travels through the ground must eventually exceed that experienced in the air, perhaps accumulating enough to shoot said subject through the center of the earth at a very fast speed. The mud encasing the subject, received when entering the quicksand bog, would be the only thing burnt away if the speed was great enough, leaving our man unscathed, if not slightly dirty."

A disbelieving snort, impossible to ignore, erupts from the Scientist. "And you said than an astronaut's suit being melted off him as he passed through the atmosphere was laughable. You hypocrite," he accuses. "Laughable, ha!" He looks around at the members of the circle trying their very best to comprehend Malady's enthusiastic explanations. Some have a look of perverse concentration while others clearly stopped paying attention to the lecture pages ago and are gazing at the sky contentedly. "You listen to this? You let him fill your heads with nonsense?" The fact that another individual might stuff the heads of the masses with irrational fluff seems to consternate the Scientist indescribably. He turns on the Sage, who is interested despite himself, and throws his hands in the air. "Enough of this!" And he stalks away.

No one pays his disappearing silhouette much mind.

Malady goes through the first few steps of removing a large piece of mucus lodged in his throat, and this proves to be a very effective way to get the attention of the others around him. Some duck prematurely, others are wrenched from their daydreams in the clouds, look around hurriedly to see if they've missed anything and find, with relief, they have. "One might ask," continues Malady, "if said subject has amassed so much acceleration due to gravity, why would they not go shooting out the opposite side of the earth and into the infinity of space? The answer is quite simple: as our subject shoots through the core of the earth, he begins to slow due to the opposite effect of gravity, pulling him back into the center. Acceleration, though, is something one can accumulate effortlessly while the act of stopping tremendous movement takes a great deal of effort indeed. I speculate that opposite gravitational pull would have eventually neutralized the acceleration he had obtained and prevented him from rising but a few, harmless feet above the ground we stand on.

"Imagine, if you will, a quicksand bog on the other side of the world and enter into it a tall man wearing loose, white pajamas. He accidentally strides into one of these pits and, lo and behold, is spit up here, half a world away from where he was last seen." Malady ends suddenly, the steam that drove the engine of his previous anecdote used. There is a twitch, barely noticeable, across his eyelid, and he slumps back into a wheezing battle with biologically impossible pollen.

"Well, I'll be damned if I know where he comes from," the crouched man barks a little too soon after the conclusion-lacking physics sermon abruptly comes to a close. He stands briskly, brushing his hands on the seat of his trousers, as to spread the grime more evenly about his person, and surveys his comrades with an air of intense irritability. "It's his own fault if he doesn't know himself. Bugger this; I'm off to have myself a pint."

The circle disperses, proving again that Nature affects every aspect of life, in a search for osmosis. (In a quest, that is to say, where the beer will move from where it is kept in high quantities to where it is more lacking; beer can be found in even the most inhospitable of places as it is one of the few universal forces in Life—the other, of course, being Death.)

After the last of the stragglers has disappeared into the desert's mirage, the desponded figure that has been the topic of so much debate moves cautiously. He raises his head fractionally, eventually following with his torso. He is alone.

As the tall man unfolds himself, the wind gently tugs the observer skyward, back to the thermals that drift so pleasantly unaware of the chaos below them. As we ascend into the thin, blue air we hear, faintly, frustrated mumbling. "Blasted device—malfunctions at the _worst_ of times! I'm a doctor not some lunatic physicist! I was having such a _nice_ dream in the Command Station and then I find I'm woken up by this babbling _madman_ going on about…" The rest of the sentence is lost in a sudden, politically aware, gale. "Scotty, beam me up…" There is a pause, and suddenly the desert is alone, void of life or sound, but for a ghost of a circle where the vultures once stood.

The wind will make quick work of it.


End file.
